Winter of the World

He set out to walk. The Czernin Palace was only a mile or two away. He headed west out of Prague’s gracious city centre, crossed the St Charles Bridge, and hurried uphill towards the castle.

Masaryk was not expecting him, nor was the Foreign Minister obliged to give audience to a Red Army colonel. But Volodya felt sure Masaryk would be curious enough to see him.

He walked fast through the snow and reached the Czernin Palace at six-forty-five. It was a huge baroque building with a grandiose row of Corinthian half-columns on the three upper storeys. The place was lightly guarded, he found to his surprise. A sentry pointed to the front door. Volodya walked unchallenged through an ornate hall.

He had expected to find the usual secret police moron behind a reception desk, but there was no one. This was a bad sign, and he was filled with foreboding.

The hall led to an inner courtyard. Glancing through a window, he saw what looked like a man sleeping in the snow. Perhaps he had fallen there drunk: if so, he was in danger of freezing to death.

Volodya tried the door and found it open.

He ran across the quadrangle. A man in blue silk pyjamas lay face down on the ground. There was no snow covering him, so he could not have been there many minutes. Volodya knelt beside him. The man was quite still and did not appear to be breathing.

Volodya looked up. Rows of identical windows like soldiers on parade looked into this courtyard. All were closed tightly against the freezing weather – except one, high above the man in pyjamas, that stood wide open.

As if someone had been thrown out of it.

Volodya turned the lifeless head and looked at the man’s face.

It was Jan Masaryk.

(ii)

Three days later in Washington, the Joint Chiefs of Staff presented to President Truman an emergency war plan to meet a Soviet invasion of Western Europe.

The danger of a third world war was a hot topic in the press. ‘We just won the war,’ Jacky Jakes said to Greg Peshkov. ‘How come we’re about to have another?’

‘That’s what I keep asking myself,’ said Greg.

They were sitting on a park bench while Greg took a breather from throwing a football with Georgy.

‘I’m glad he’s too young to fight,’ Jacky said.

‘Me, too.’

They both looked at their son, standing talking to a blonde girl about his age. The laces of his Keds were undone and his shirt was untucked. He was twelve years old and growing up. He had a few soft black hairs on his upper lip, and he seemed three inches taller than last week.

‘We’ve been bringing our troops home as fast as we can,’ Greg said. ‘So have the British and the French. But the Red Army stayed put. Result: they now have three times as many soldiers in Germany as we do.’

‘Americans don’t want another war.’

‘You can say that again. And Truman hopes to win the Presidential election in November, so he’s going to do everything he can to avoid war. But it may happen anyway.’

‘You’re getting out of the army soon. What are you going to do?’

There was a quaver in her voice that made him suspect the question was not as casual as she pretended. He looked at her face, but her expression was unreadable. He answered: ‘Assuming America is not at war, I’m going to run for Congress in 1950. My father has agreed to finance my campaign. I’ll start as soon as the Presidential election is over.’

She looked away. ‘Which party?’ She asked the question mechanically.

He wondered if he had said something to upset her. ‘Republican, of course.’

‘What about marriage?’

Greg was taken aback. ‘Why do you ask that?’

She was looking hard at him now. ‘Are you getting married?’ she persisted.

‘As it happens, I am. Her name is Nelly Fordham.’

‘I thought so. How old is she?’

‘Twenty-two. What do you mean, you thought so?’

‘A politician needs a wife.’

‘I love her!’

‘Sure you do. Is her family in politics?’

‘Her father is a Washington lawyer.’

‘Good choice.’

Greg felt annoyed. ‘You’re being very cynical.’

‘I know you, Greg. Good Lord, I fucked you when you weren’t much older than Georgy is now. You can fool everyone except your mother and me.’

She was perceptive, as always. His mother had also been critical of his engagement. They were right: it was a career move. But Nelly was pretty and charming and she adored Greg, so what was so wrong? ‘I’m meeting her for lunch near here in a few minutes,’ he said.

Jacky said: ‘Does Nelly know about Georgy?’

‘No. And we must keep it that way.’

‘You’re right. Having an illegitimate child is bad enough; a black one could ruin your career.’

‘I know.’

‘Almost as bad as a black wife.’

Greg was so surprised that he came right out with it. ‘Did you think I was going to marry you?’

She looked sour. ‘Hell, no, Greg. If I was given a choice between you and the Acid Bath Murderer, I’d ask for time to think about it.’